


Flesh Is Only An Indulgance

by ASirensDeadliestSong



Series: Feast Your Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Horror, Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drug Addiction, End of the World, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Other, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD John, Protective Mycroft, References to Addiction, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts, Zombie AU, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-14 00:12:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18041738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASirensDeadliestSong/pseuds/ASirensDeadliestSong
Summary: You never know when your world is about to change. Not even the great Sherlock Holmes can predict such a thing.Now living through the fall of society Sherlock must find a way to not only survive, but also thrive with the ragtag group of survivors he managed to pull together. Caught between the living dead and a new obscenely attractive silver haired man, Sherlock is challenged with his biggest case yet; saving the world.





	1. 1

An unfamiliar sense of dread hung heavy over the world on an uncharacteristically warm January afternoon in London. The sun shone just barely through a few breaks in the clouds and the wind whistled through the space between buildings and cars. Sherlock had woken up rather early after a particularly restless evening alone in his flat. The silence of the world outside of his own rapidly loud brain was daunting. His day at Barts Hospital was lethargic in its nature, his body feeling heavier than normal. Mike Stamford was sat with him in the lab as he went through a number of experiments he had come up with the previous evening.  
“Nice day out, isn’t it?” Mike spoke not looking up from the laptop his thick fingers were furiously typing on. This was part of their typical interactions that Sherlock both despised and secretly cherished. Mike after all was one of the only people in Sherlock’s life who didn’t treat him like a vile excuse for a human.  
“You know I’m not a fan of small talk, Mike.” Sherlock spoke dryly not removing his eyes from the petri dish where he had just dropped an array of chemicals onto a small blood sample. His eyes remained fixed and curious as it sizzled and foamed up.  
“Right,” Mike said softly, as usual at a loss for how to interact with Sherlock, “I was wondering how that search for a new flatmate was working out for you.” He was cautious with his words almost as if he were fearing waking a wrath from deep within Sherlock’s soul. Sherlock gave an exasperated grunt in reply to the question, his mind already formulating a tangent about how not a single soul in London would want him for a flatmate.  
“Mike, as I previously stated,” Sherlock began but was swiftly cut off by his mobile. His eyes darted to the offending object sat on the table a few feet away from him, the name on the display being none other than his older brother. He let out a scoff. “Sorry, if I don’t take this the entire British Government will descend upon us.” Sherlock spoke with a venom in his voice as his slender long fingers wrapped around the buzzing item.  
“Hello, brother mine.” Mycroft spoke in his usual cold tone, but it had a slight edge of worry to it that caused a scowl to cross Sherlock’s face as he exited the lab into the extending hallway.  
“Mycroft, for the last time I am doing well. I’ve even quit smoking. There is little need for you to constantly disturb my work.” Sherlock spat.  
“If only your self destructive habits were the reason for my call.” Mycroft’s voice seemed somber, “I need you to come to my residence at once. There is no time for delay. I have a car waiting for you out front.” Mycroft’s words stirred up a twinge of anxiety within Sherlock that he suffocated like a flame.  
“What is it? Has something happened to Mum?” Sherlock’s mind was racing scanning through all logical reasons for this seemingly urgent call.  
“A car has been sent for out parents as well, but that is all the information on them I posses. We haven’t got the time to discuss this right now. Get in the car, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was more demanding than normal.  
“I will not do a thing until you explain to me the reason for this.” Sherlock spat out in his frustration.  
“There is an active terror attack happening across London. I am told that it may be spread much farther. Biological warfare, it is being described as. The story has not been made public as we are trying to contain it. Now get in the car, there is no time for delay.” Mycroft disconnected the call abruptly. Sherlock could not recount a time in which he had heard his normally composed brother seem so fearful. He let the phone fall from his ear and let his eyes look at it as if it had the answer to the universe on it. Had he not known Mycroft well enough he would think this was some kind of joke.  
Undetermined amounts of time passed by as Sherlock stood almost paralyzed before he straightened out his suit and headed back in the lab. Molly Hooper was now stood beside Mike Stamford exchanging laughs over two mugs of coffee. Sherlock’s expression was vacant as he watched the two. He considered Mike a friend of sorts, or as close to a friend as someone like him was capable of having. If Mycroft’s sources were accurate he couldn’t leave Mike to potentially perish at the hands of whatever this attack may be. Molly Hooper however he found at times to be ditsy, over eager, and rather annoying, but she was useful when he needed assistance. He took long strides to where his Belstaff wool coat and his dark blue scarf were draped neatly over a chair.  
“Both of you need to come with me. There is no time to ask questions or collect any items.” Sherlock said quick and emotionless. His words drew the attention of his colleagues to him at last.  
“Everything all right, Sherlock?” Mike asked hastily standing from his seat and inspecting the tall man throwing on his jacket and tying his scarf.  
“I do believe I said there is no time for questions, Mike. We need to leave immediately.” Molly looked half petrified but she nodded at Sherlock’s words. Mike seemed to stop his protests and questions as well. As a unit the trio left Bart’s and just as Mycroft had said there was a sleek black vehicle waiting for him. Molly’s mouth opened as they got in the car but a glare from Sherlock made her snap her mouth shut abruptly.  
It was almost immediate when the door shut that the car burst off at an alarming speed. It didn’t take someone like Sherlock to deduce this meant his brother was petrified. Sherlock removed the mobile from his pocket and sent a text to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Martha Hudson.  
‘No time to explain. Get in your cars immediately. Do not stop for anything. Meet me at Mycroft’s place of residence. -SH’ following this he sent the address in a separate message. His heart was palpitating a bit and his hands were shaky. He received inquisitive looks from both Molly and Mike, but his gaze was fixed out of the tinted window. This place he loved so much was about to fall, and he had no idea why or to what.

*

Greg Lestrade had just finished a press conference in regards to the recent string of suicides and the strange new development of the bodies going missing shortly after being taken to the morgue when he received a cryptic text from Sherlock Holmes. They had been acquainted for long enough now for him to understand that when he received a message like this it was best to listen.  
“Donovan, Anderson, grab your coats.” His tone was forceful as he shoved his mobile back into his pocket.  
“New lead?” Donovan inquired as she trailed behind Greg.  
“I’m not sure.” He saw no point in being dishonest.  
“Oh, not him again.” Anderson grunted piecing the dots together.  
“Shut it Anderson, or I will be sure to leave you behind.”  
“What does freak need this time?” Donovan put her jacket on and continued following Greg to the car park below the building.  
“As I said, I’m not sure. He just told me to meet him. I’m not fool enough to ignore him.” Greg pulled his keys from his pocket and hit the unlock button. The click of the doors opening broke the sudden silence. Suddenly a gasp broke through it as well causing Greg to spin on his heels. There was a man covered in blood and bile walking towards the three of them. Greg’s hand fell from the handle leaving the door of his car slightly ajar.  
“Sir, are you okay? Do you need assistance?” Donovan said while hesitantly approaching the man. His behaviour seemed slightly erratic. Greg moved his hand to the gun harnessed to his right hip. “Sir?” Donovan asked again and moved to rest her hand on the man’s shoulder. He made a motion as if sniffing the air and before there was even a moment for any of the three of them to react he went full attack mode. There was a growl like scream from the man’s throat before he latched onto Donovan’s exposed throat and ripped clean through her jugular. Her body tensed and fell to the ground as blood spurt from her neck and doused her cream coloured clothing in thick crimson red. The man now seemed to be chewing and swallowing the chunk of skin he had taken.  
“Christ!” Anderson shouted out in horror and disgust. He made a move to run towards Donovan’s body but Greg was quick to shove him back against the car, his gun now drawn. He felt sick as the man fell forwards towards the body and ripped another chunk of skin from Donovan’s unmoving corpse.  
“Back away from her, now!” Greg shouted, his gun firmly fixed on the man as the sound of him chewing flesh filled the space, “Did you hear me? I said back away!” He shouted again. This seemed to get the man’s attention. He stood in a strange lethargic and broken type of way and started shuffling over to where Greg and Anderson stood. “Stop where you are! I will shoot!” The man pressed forward and made that same growl sound he had before attacking Donovan. Greg fired a shot into the man’s leg. This did nothing. The man pressed forward completely undeterred. Greg shot again, this time aiming and hitting the heart. He and Anderson both watched in shock as again this seemed to do nothing. Greg fired three more shots, but this only resulted in the man stumbling backwards.  
“Greg we need to leave!” Anderson yelled and dove into the car slamming the door. Greg’s flight instinct took route and he dove into the driver’s seat and fumbled with his keys. Just as the engine roared to life the man slammed into Greg’s windows, his fists smashing repeatedly against the glass smearing it with blood. Greg shifted the car into reverse and slammed the gas. The man pursued the car as it turned. Just as Greg was speeding out of the car park he saw as Donovan sat up and looked towards the car, her expression vacant, her eyes now seeming a cloudy marbled blue.

*

Martha Hudson had spent her morning at the shops picking up some much needed groceries. She had dinner plans with Sherlock that evening and he was a rather picky eater with a large sweet tooth, but she knew what he liked. She had years back taken on the task of keeping Sherlock well fed. The man was quite thin and felt rather inconvenienced by any food that wasn’t fresh chips, biscuits, or a fresh baked good filled with the sweetest of fruits. She almost had a laugh each time she scanned an item at the self checkout wondering how ridiculous she must look with all these overly sweet items, a sack of potatoes, and some freshly cut fish filets.  
It didn’t take the elderly woman long to take notice of the rather short silver haired man beside her getting frustrated with with his self checkout station. The man had a cane at his side while trying to scan items with his free hand. Mrs. Hudson finished up at her station and paid before walking to the young man with her bags in tow.  
“Do you need any help, young man?” She said in her chipper voice.  
“Help would be lovely, thank you.” He said in a low grumble but not sounding hostile at all. Together they managed to scan and bag all the items the man had. She was just about to walk away when the man began to have a full on row with the chip and pin machine. It seemed he had insufficient funds for his items.  
“Let me help.” She interjected once more and took her card back out.  
“Oh I really can’t accept that. I’ll just have to come back another time.” The man seemed more embarrassed now than anything else.  
“I insist. We all fall on hard times.” She put her card in the device and swiftly paid before he could give further protest. She then handed the man his two bags.  
“Thank you.. Hell I don’t even know your name!” He stated seeming rather alarmed at this strangers kindness.  
“Martha Hudson,” She said with a warm motherly smile, “You’re very welcome, young man. Just be sure to pay the kindness forward one day.” The man gave a nod and thanked her one more time before they had parted ways.  
She had spent the afternoon unloading groceries and preparing the meal for the evening feeling rather good about herself. There was always an unmatchable joy she felt at helping others. Her mind couldn’t help but wonder what would become of that man.  
Her mobile lit up just as she was about to put a berry cobbler into her oven. An urgent message from Sherlock. Even through the text she managed to fully grasp the urgency in his words. Completely abandoning the meal she was preparing she left the flat and got in her car. The address Sherlock had given for his brother’s residence was well outside of the city and more towards the quiet countryside. It would be quite the drive. She moved her hand and cranked up the rock album she had left in the player from her earlier drive.  
Twenty minutes into her drive the whole atmosphere of the world seemed to shift and people seemed to be more distressed. Her eyes scanned the walkway to her left and saw a grizzly sight. A woman was drenched in blood and bile pursuing a man who was attempting to beat her advances back with a cane. There was a moment of shock when she recognised this as the man from earlier at the shops. Without hesitation she unlocked her doors, rolled down the right sides window and called out to the man.  
“Get in!” It seemed enough to get his attention and he did not protest. He whacked the woman hard across the head causing her to stumble and made his way quick as possible to the car, his limp slowing him. The woman had started her pursuit again, but Mrs. Hudson tore off the moment the man got into the car.  
“It appears you have saved my yet again, Mrs. Hudson.” The man sounded exhausted and gasping. He seemed a bit terrified. She smiled awkwardly, a bit terrified herself.  
“And I don’t even know your name.” She said with a laugh using his earlier words.  
“John. It’s John Watson.” The man said warmly, but his tone was laced with terror.

*

The car ride to his brothers residence was long and filled with overwhelming silence and confusion, but it was thankfully over. The car pulled through the high front gates of the mansion his brother lived in, a loud squeaking as they closed behind them. The driveway was long and winding, trees everywhere across the property. In the three hour drive Sherlock had formulated many questions. He had periodically been checking his phone for any news updates on what his brother had been talking about. Everything seemed pure radio silence which was all the more unnerving.  
The car deposited the three adults at the front door where Mycroft remained in the doorway. The first thing Sherlock noticed in his brothers expression was relief at the sight of him safe, but this emotion was quickly replaced as he noticed the two other people standing behind him. Now he looked scandalized.  
“Mycroft.” Sherlock said dryly as he ascended the steps to where his brother was.  
“When I instructed you to come at once I don’t believe I left much room from interpretation, yet here you are with two other.. people.” He said the word as if it were earwax in his mouth.  
“With your warning I didn’t intend to leave them behind. Perhaps they can be useful in this predicament, whatever it may be.” Sherlock brushed by his brother and entered the mansion.  
“Should I be expecting any more strays of yours showing up at my front step?” Mycroft was thoroughly annoyed now.  
“Two.” Sherlock replied and dropped himself into one of the arm chairs in the main entryway. Mike and Molly entered and seemed in awe of the spectacle that was in front of them. Mycroft did like his extravagance, and this home was a testament to that.  
“The information I told you was not meant to be shared. You risked the very peace I try so hard to protect by sharing it with your fanclub.” Mycroft spat and slammed the front door. Sherlock stood ready to start a confrontation but his brother raised his hands up in surrender. “Now is no time for a childish display of dominance, brother mine.”  
“Then what is it a time for?” Sherlock’s voice was thick with disgust. His eyes wandered over his brother making quick deductions. Mycroft was a posh man who took appearance quite seriously, but standing now his hair was in complete disarray, his posture was hunched in defeat, there were dark bags beneath his eyes, and his eyes were glassy and displayed clearly burst blood vessels. “This is serious..” Sherlock sighed out taking everything in rather fast. It was as if his very together brother had not slept in a week, perhaps not bathed in even longer. Even his suit was creased and had clear coffee stains on it from where his shaky hands had made a spill.  
“Of course it’s serious! I wouldn’t have rushed you here if this was a mere threat. Most of Central London fell thirty minutes ago. We are in a state of emergency and this time I don’t think there is a way to stop it.” His tone was full of defeat, his body language showed clearly he felt at blame.  
“What is it?” The gravity of the situation was hitting Sherlock and he sunk back into the chair he had risen from.  
“A virus. It was engineered somewhere in Serbia under a crime network we had previously thought a minor threat.” Mycroft leaned back against one of the ornate tables as if he was about to crumble under his own weight.  
“If it’s a virus then there must be a cure out there. Perhaps this can be contained.” Molly piped in, her eyes brimming with tears of fear. Mike was leaning against a wall silent trying to process the information they’d just recieved.  
“Sadly not. This is a fast moving virus and once it is introduced to the system there is a small margin before it takes over and goes beyond something curable.” Mycroft said even more defeated now. Clearly he had already worked out all potential options and came up with nothing.  
“What does it do?” Mike finally spoke, but it was clear in his voice that he wasn’t all there.  
“It infects the brain subsequently killing it and the host’s body. Only the brainstem survives and as such only the most basic and primal of instincts. Eat, move. They are driven by hunger and pure aggression.”  
“I’m sorry.. You said that it kills the host, so how is it that they are eating and moving?” Molly inquired. Sherlock found it painful watching her and Mike think and process everything.  
“They are in a state of both death and life.” Mycroft says matter of factly.  
“I don’t understand..” Mike says sounding as if he were about to break, “How can they be both dead and alive?”  
“I wish I could answer your questions better. There is only so much known right now.” Mycroft continued.  
“How did it start?” A few tears were now spilling from Molly’s eyes as she spoke, her voice cracking.  
“I’m sure you three have read about the suicides in the papers. The poison they took contained the virus. The victims acted as the incubator for the virus to take root, then they themselves became the means of spreading the virus.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, his face contorting. It was clear he was getting a headache.  
“How is it spread? How do we protect ourselves?” Mike asked sinking to the floor.  
“All we know is that it spreads from contact. The first cases of spreading came after being bitten or scratched. It all happened rather fast after that. There is no stopping it, and there is no slowing it down. The world as we know it is at an end.” Molly then dissolved into a puddle of sobs on the floor, her body convulsing with fear and sadness.  
“Mr. Holmes, there two cars at the gate. A Greg Lestrade and Martha Hudson here for Sherlock Holmes.” One of Mycroft’s personal guards interrupted the conversation.  
“Ah yes, more of your strays.” Mycroft was clearly too exhausted to put any bite into his tone. “Let them in.” He ordered and waved the man away.  
There was a long and deafening silence that overtook the room aside from Molly on the floor as they waited for two other cars to arrive.  
“Sherlock, please handle this woman.” Mycroft was succumbing to his headache and the sound of her wails was not much help.  
“What do you expect me to do?” He shot back and bent his hand in frustration as annoyance overtook his face.  
“You brought her along, she is your responsibility. Now shut her up!” Mycroft snapped. The front door flew open and Greg walked in, his eyes glassy and wide, his skin white as a sheet. In tow he had Anderson who seemed to match his expression entirely.  
“Oh what the hell is he doing here?!” Sherlock shot up from his chair as his face contorted into pure rage. Greg didn’t reply, it seemed his voice was lost somewhere back at New Scotland Yard. Anderson didn’t fire back some ill thought out insult or sarcasm. Sherlock’s expression softened a bit realizing something was very wrong.  
“What is it?” Sherlock inquired but received no response. Before he could press farther an alarmed Mrs. Hudson burst through the open door and ran to embrace Sherlock. His body went rigid before he relaxed into the hug.  
“Oh Sherlock.. You have no idea what we have seen.” She muttered out through her tears.  
“We?” He asked and his face twisted with confusion that wasn’t long lived. A short silver haired man limped into the doorway and looked around at the scene before him. He seemed alarmed and confused to say the least. His cane seemed to be covered in blood, but he himself seemed clear of any. Sherlock’s mind raced as he took the man in. Psychosomatic limp, army man recently home, tanned slightly, clearly stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq. Sherlock’s icy eyes darted all over him before his train of thought was interrupted by Mike.  
“John? John Watson?” Mike seemed to be overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia of better times, “It’s Mike Stamford. We trained at Bart’s together.” He elaborated at the momentary confusion on John’s face. So an army doctor, Sherlock noted.  
“Mike, right. I remember you.” He said and extended his hand to the man.  
“Last I heard you were off somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”  
“I got shot.” The man replied bitterly and his left hand clenched into a fist and released shaking.  
“Can we stop with the pleasantries?!” Greg finally snapped out of his silent stupor.  
“Right, yes. Can someone explain what in God's name is going on?” John said turning away from Mike and looking Sherlock up and down quizzically.  
“The end of the world.” Mycroft said absently.  
“Care to expand on that?” Greg said clearly irritated. Anderson was now throwing up in one of Mycroft’s one of a kind pots. This brought joy to Sherlock for several reasons. A small smirk crossed his lips.  
“Biological warfare. A crime network released a virus that overtakes the brain leaving only a shell of a person, a very aggressive one.” Sherlock tried to summarize to spare his brother from having to have this conversation all over again. Sherlock watched with a blank expression as everyone in the room started formulating rapid fire questions. The tension in the room was so strong it couldn’t even be cut with the sharpest blade. The sudden silence was cut by a loud ringing of Mycroft’s mobile. He winced and raised the offending item to his ear.  
“Yes? Right. Oh. I understand.” Mycroft ended the call and walked up the staircase to where his room was without another word. Sherlock knew the news was not good but he decided that he didn’t want to know the obvious reason for Mycroft walking off as he did.  
Mrs. Hudson was on the floor trying to console Molly. Mike was with Anderson and Greg trying to explain what he could about the situation. John and Sherlock were left standing alone and slightly awkward, their eyes locked on each other. A million different thoughts were racing through both men’s minds, not one being said aloud.  
An obnoxious beeping came through from the adjacent room and Sherlock took this chance to break the trance and dash off to where the sound was coming from. It seemed that the others had the same idea. The sound was being produced from a large flat screen television.  
“This is an emergency broadcast. This is not a drill. Remain in your homes. Do not answer the door for anyone. Earlier this afternoon a mass group of people began attacking civilians. The numbers have grown dramatically. We urge you to stay inside and not try and flee. Military efforts are being made to subdue these groups of individuals. We have received reports that most large cities have fallen victim to these attacks. If you are getting this message please take precautions. Please await further instructions.” The silence fell once more as the group of them took in the message. Greg was the first to speak.  
“No one is coming to save us.” His words both a statement and a question at the same time. The atmosphere now somber, uncertainty and fear taking over. Sherlock couldn’t help but see this as a case he needed to solve.  
There was a series of loud thunderous claps from the distance and Sherlock didn’t even need to look out the window to understand what was being done, the answer had already been clear in Mycroft’s actions after that phone call. They were bombing the cities.


	2. 2

It took a few hours for the group to calm down enough for everyone to gather in the dining area. Mycroft hadn’t emerged from wherever he had gone off to, and an eerie silence had taken over the world. Almost everyone was sat quietly around a large oval shaped table, not a single person making eye contact with anyone else. Sherlock was sat between Greg Lestrade and John Watson doing his best not to continue deducing this man. There was a loud squeak as the doors to the kitchens opened and three of Mycroft’s workers came rushing out carrying plates of food and a bottle of red wine from his cellar. Sherlock’s eyes glanced over the small serving of chicken that was on everyone’s plates accompanied by a spoonful of rice and some steamed vegetables. The portion was less than half the size of a normal adult meal. The rationing was already starting and it seemed no one at the table questioned this. Most of them didn’t have much of an appetite anyways.  
The overwhelming smell of the herbs and spices coating the food wafted into Sherlock’s nose and started giving him a minor headache. His long fingers curled around the tables edge and dug in a bit catching the attention of John.  
“You okay?” The silver haired man leaned in close and whispered in Sherlock’s ear, his warm breath on his neck causing a shiver. He nodded in response.  
“Fine.” Was all he muttered out before taking a large swig of water. The man coming around and pouring wine into the crystal glasses made an attempt to fill the one sat in front of Sherlock. He was fast in shooting his hand out and covering the top. “None for me.” His voice was venomous.  
“Lighten up, Sher. It’s the end of the world. A glass of wine won’t hurt.” Greg chimed in downing his own glass immediately and motioning for a refill.  
“I said I didn’t want any.” Sherlock said with annoyance. He couldn’t afford to have his senses dulled by alcohol. Not with what was happening in the world. “But if you feel the need to spend the rest of your life inebriated, by all means have my share.” Sherlock picked up his fork and had a spoonful of the rice on his plate. Between each bite of chicken he had to have a large sip of water to clear his palette. He would need to have a word with the kitchens about trying to compensate for the lack of food by drowning what was there in every spice they saw.  
There was a sudden crack and the power within the mansion died out. The room was plummeted into complete darkness and Sherlock could feel John Watson go stiff beside him. The sound of cutlery on plates stopped almost immediately and it was as if no one dared to even breathe, almost as if everyone aside from Sherlock was certain that any sound would ensure death,  
“It’s just an outage. The power stations probably got hit in the bombing.” Sherlock said with annoyance at how everyone was acting, “Mycroft has a number of backup generators. They will kick on any moment.” Sherlock felt around with his fork and brought some of the steamed vegetables up to his lips.  
“What if they don’t? The world is ending. How can we rely on some backup generators that may not have been tended to in years?” Anderson said with panic lacing his voice. Sherlock heard his chair slide against the wooden floor creating an agonizingly obnoxious screeching sound. Sherlock didn’t need to be able to see Anderson to know he was now standing and staring aimlessly around the room in an overly sassy and arrogant manor.  
“Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the I.Q of the whole street.” Sherlock retorted just a second before the room illuminated again as the generators kicked on. Anderson scowled at Sherlock but lowered himself back into his chair.  
“Yeah well it’s not as if there is anyone left in the world who’s I.Q I could lower now, is there? It’s just us.” Anderson grumbled under his voice. A sadness took over the room again.  
“Do you think there are any other survivors out there?” Mrs. Hudson asked from the opposite side of the table. Her usual chipper voice was dull and full of sorrow now. Sherlock was at a loss for words. He didn’t have the answers to this. The person who would know would be his brother, and he seemed to think locking himself away was the best response to this situation.  
“Excuse me.” Sherlock said and stood from the table walking out of the room, most of the chicken still left untouched. From behind his back he heard Lestrade utter something about not wasting any food and then the clatter of a plate and plop of food onto another one.  
Sherlock’s strides were long and purposeful, his mind running its usual thousand miles a minute. His long fingers ran through his curls and messed them up a bit. His feet were carrying him though he had no desired location. He found himself in Mycroft’s study where his brother sat with his head held in his hand, an empty bottle of whisky at his side, and a number of screens playing security feeds from earlier in the day before they were knocked out by the bombs. Sherlock remained in the doorway watching with horror as large groups of people hounded the ones running for their lives. The effortlessness in which they tore into other humans and consumed their flesh churned his stomach. In his life he had seen many horrors, many violent murders and deaths, but there was something about seeing people being eaten alive that shook him to his core in an unimaginable way. When the screen flashed to a group of children being attacked Sherlock walked into the room and turned his back towards the screen. His eyes scanned his brother taking everything in. Somehow in the few hours since he had last seen him he looked alarmingly worse, as if ten years had passed in a matter of minutes. The room flashed as the displays showed the moment the bombs were dropped on the large cities, then darkness. The tapes then replayed. Sherlock wondered how many times his brother had watched these tapes over and over before being unable to look anymore. From the odour of alcohol coming off his brother that bottle of whisky was not the only alcohol that had consumed.  
“It’s all gone, Sherlock. Everything. I failed.” His brother slurred out not removing his head from his hands. He wondered if his brother was even able to lift his head at this point. Sherlock inspected his brother for a moment before hesitantly putting one of his hands on Mycroft’s shoulder. The sudden weight of this almost caused him to slip from the chair.  
“Mum? Dad?” Sherlock couldn’t resist asking regardless if this was a good time or not.  
“Casualties of the bombs.” Mycroft’s hand reached out, clicked a few buttons, then one of the screens changed. Sherlock spun on his heel slightly to look at the screen. On it a sleek black car, obviously one Mycroft had sent for their parents, was stopped in an alarming amount of traffic. The clip was short lived as the screen was consumed in fire and then darkness. There was a lump in the back of Sherlock’s throat but he remained stoic. Not even the apocalypse would cause him to let the world see he wasn’t some machine like sociopath if he could control it. That was his armour, his protection. Sherlock was now inspecting his shoes as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. He didn’t know what to say to his brother, and even if he did Mycroft remained far too intoxicated for any of it to truly register. He had never seen his normally composed brother deteriorate into this state and it was disconcerting.  
“Christ…” Someone breathed out from the doorway causing Sherlock’s head to snap up from the floor. John Watson was standing in the doorway with his gaze fixed on the screen, the lights of the horror they displayed reflecting in his blue eyes. He was leaning heavily on his cane and his free hand was trembling and clenching at his side.  
“Get him out of here.” Mycroft slurred, his shame lacing his tone. Sherlock made no move to do such a thing. He was taking in this mans reactions to everything. He limped into the room to get a closer look at the screens. With each step it seemed the tremble in his hand was lessening. Sherlock’s head tilted slightly to the side.  
“So there really is nothing left then?” John inquired though it was clear that he already knew the answer. It was written clear across the screens.  
“Seems that way.” Sherlock moved to stand next to the man who was quite a bit shorter than him, he finally realized.  
“Mike told me that the suicides were linked to whatever this is.” He motioned at the screen.  
“The virus was in the poison they took.” Sherlock confirmed based on what his brother had told him.  
“You knew about what was going on?” Anger was now in John’s voice and Sherlock watched his expression change as he turned to observe Mycroft.  
“We had received information that there was.. A virus” Mycroft said and finally lifted his head to face John and Sherlock. Sherlock now saw how red, swollen, and raw his brothers eyes were. This drunk man sitting in that chair was not his brother. This was a broken shell, a complete stranger. “None of us had any idea how bad.. How deadly. We did all we could. It wasn’t enough.” Mycroft’s words seemed to be slurring worse now that he was sitting up. His voice was raw and cracking. Sherlock took notes of the trickles of blood on his brothers head where he had dug his nails into his own flesh before pounding his fists onto his forehead.  
“So you’re just giving up then? That’s that?” John took a purposeful step towards Mycroft. Mycroft sat up as if ready to embrace whatever beating John may place upon him. Sherlock took a stride forward and positioned himself between the two men.  
“What is left to be fixed? Take a look at these videos and tell me there is still something left to fight for.” Mycroft went to stand up but his knees buckled underneath his weight. He made some kind of noise that vaguely resemble words as he fell into Sherlock who with the help of John caught the man’s weight. Holding the weight of Mycroft, Sherlock looked over to John who without thinking before acting was helping hold the man from hitting the ground. The cane he had been relying on was laying in the floor and it seemed as if John hadn’t even registered it was missing.  
“Would you help me get him to the sofa?” Sherlock motioned his head towards the large unsightly brown sofa tucked towards the far end of the room. John nodded.  
“Right. Yeah, no problem.” Together the two men carried Mycroft’s limp body towards the couch and dropped him indelicately onto it. His brother was already snoring by the time his head hit the soft surface. Sherlock used his long leg to drag and kick the rubbish bin under the coffee table to be positioned right by Mycroft’s head. John spun the man so he was laying on his side.  
“Thanks.” Sherlock stated drily as he smoothed out his suit. His eyes ran up and down the army doctor stood next to him. The man had his arms crossed over his chest while he looked exasperated at Mycroft. Sherlock did not blame John for this fact. His brother was typically bothersome, but this was a whole new level for him.  
“Someone will need to keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit in his sleep.” Sherlock nodded. John started walking towards the doorway. He was almost through it when Sherlock called after him.  
“John?” The man stopped and turned back around.  
“Yeah?”  
“You forgot something.” Sherlock said and motioned towards the cane on the floor. He was trying to hide his small smile. This was no time for joy. John practically snorted as he walked back into the room and picked up the cane. He smiled a bit as he inspected the item in his hand before walking out without another word. There was a lot for him to process in just one day. There was a lot for all of them to process in just a single day.  
Sherlock poured a large cup of water for his brother and placed it on the coffee table directly in front of him, grabbed one of the yarn blankets their mum had made for him for Christmas a few years ago and placed that over him before he walked and took a seat in the office chair Mycroft had been seated in before. For awhile he just watched his brother sleep wondering when the last time was that he had the peace of a real deep rest. Eventually though Sherlock couldn’t help but turn back to the screens playing the horror of this newfound reality. He watched each and every screen play a different horror, saw and memorized every face he could make out that was killed by these diseased beings. He ran his hands along his face and felt a few tears slip from his eyes watching all this. He didn’t care what his brother had said, there still had to be people out there, something worth fighting for, and he was going to fight for it. He shook the tears off and picked the lock on his brothers file cabinet and pulled the laptop from the side drawer of the desk. He needed all the details. He pulled all the files that looked relevant and dropped them onto the desk next to the closed laptop. His eye quickly scanned through the abundance of papers the large files contained.  
The first file of relevant info was the baseline of what they knew about the virus and what it does to the body. Sherlock placed the scans they had of the brain from before, during, and after the virus took over on top of the screens still playing the surveillance footage. There was quite a clear difference between all the scans and he understood now what Mycroft had meant about it only bringing the brain stem back to life. There was absolutely no activity left in the neocortex or frontal lobe after the virus took full effect. Everything that made a human alive and who they were was gone. Next Sherlock looked through the notes in the files. The notes seemed to compare the virus in a way to how meningitis invades the brain. Right before death the adrenal glands seem to hemorrhage in all these cases causing brain shut down followed by massive organ shut down. Through all the notes and studies it became apparent that not one single person had any real idea what this was, how it truly worked, or how to stop it. He slammed that file shut and moved onto the one that contained information on the crime network that Mycroft thinks organized the attack. This file was substantially smaller. Sherlock let out a scoff.  
“No kidding you didn’t deem these people a threat.” Sherlock muttered under his breath and shot a slight glare towards his brother. He flipped through the files reading up on all the information his brother did have on this group. The things it contained seemed relatively small in the grand scheme of things. Theft, fraud, murder, nothing that would ever indicate biological warfare that would take down the entire world. At the centre of all these crimes and all these pages was one name, one master of the entire network. Sherlock flipped to the back of the file and there was a face staring back at him. A face with cold, dead, dark brown eyes and a sadistic grin, A face and stare that looked straight into his soul and embedded itself in his mind. The face that was responsible for the fall of society and billions of deaths. James Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey and thanks for checking out chapter two of 'Flesh is Only an Indulgence'. I know this chapter is a bit short but in this chapter I wanted to explore more of what is going on with Mycroft and the apocalypse. With each chapter I will be able to dive further into how everyone is managing things, but this chapter was mainly about some answers and the introduction to the mastermind behind all of this.  
> As always I hope you readers enjoyed the chapter and will continue to join me along this journey.
> 
> With love,  
> -ASirensDeadliestSong


	3. 3

It was mid afternoon before Mycroft started stirring from his drunken sleep. His groans filled the silence of his office. Sherlock was pressed tight into the far corner of the room on the floor with his legs pulled up to his chest. His hands were steepled under his chin as he remained deep in thought. The happenings of the world around him didn’t even register, his consciousness was elsewhere. The papers from the files he had been looking at were scattered in a messy circle around his body, the glow from Mycroft’s open laptop in the centre of it all illuminated his pale skin making it look almost as if he were glowing.  
Mycroft leaned over the side of the couch and emptied the contents of his stomach into the small rubbish bin that was waiting there for him. The sight was unbecoming of the once proud and posh man. He tried to chase the bad taste away with the glass of water that had been left for him. His eyes were squinted from the massive headache he was feeling. It didn’t take him long to locate his younger brother lost in thought surrounded by the confidential files.  
“Those files.. are confidential.” Mycroft spoke and winced with every word. He received no acknowledgement from Sherlock. The world was over, what did it truly matter if Sherlock looked at the files? Mycroft lifted himself from the couch and left the office leaving Sherlock alone in his own mind.  
Sherlock’s mind was processing many things at once about the disease that ended the world but his mind never wandered far from the man who started it all. James Moriarty. No matter how far Sherlock wandered in thought or in research he could not begin to comprehend what could motivate this man to end the world. He seemed to thrive on causing trouble, but with the world over there wasn’t much trouble left to be causing. The virus was too random, too uncontrollable. Once someone was infected they became mindless beings that had no master, no morals, they only wanted to kill. What benefit could Moriarty find in this? How could he even ensure his own safety in all of this? If ending the world was for his enjoyment, how could he enjoy it all if he too died?  
“I brought you something to eat.” A hand clapped onto his shoulder and shook him a bit startling him from thought. Sherlock’s eyes blinked rapidly for a moment trying to regain his bearings before he took notice of the person who disturbed his trance. John Watson stood over him with a plate of four biscuits in his hand. “I took notice of how the chicken bugged you last night. I thought maybe this would suit your palate a bit more.” Sherlock scrunched his nose a bit at this gesture before taking the plate.  
“Thanks.” He spoke with a bit of uncertainty. Mrs. Hudson had been the only one who tried much to get a decent bit of food in him before all this. A stranger's kindness was not something he was accustomed to.  
“Mrs. Hudson is putting some tea on if you’re interested.” John stepped to the side a bit and let his eyes wander across the papers inquisitively. Sherlock inspected his features as he looked at the scans and test results.  
“You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an army doctor.” Sherlock said as a fact rather than a question. This took John by surprise.  
“Yes.” He spoke and looked back towards Sherlock.  
“Any good?”  
“Very good.”  
“Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.”  
“Well, yes.”  
“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”  
“Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much.”  
“Want to see some more?”  
“Oh, God, yes.” There was an eagerness and hunger in John’s eyes now that Sherlock found almost irresistible. He stood from the floor and dropped the plate of biscuits next to Mycroft’s empty glass. His slender fingers gathered all the relevant papers about the virus from the floor and dropped them back onto Mycroft’s desk. John was just on his tail peering over his hunched over shoulders.  
“Have a look, tell me what you see.” Sherlock side stepped leaving room for John to approach the desk. The shorter man’s fingers slide across the edge of the scans and lifted them up into the light. His dark blue eyes darted from scan to scan as he switched for all the varying stages of the virus. John then put all the scans down and closely read the reports and results of all the testings done on the blood, brain tissue, and spinal fluids. He seemed to be thinking rather hard trying to wrap his mind around what he was reading.  
“Right.” He said after a good half hour. Sherlock had stood stiff beside him the whole time leaving the man room to think. “These people are definitely dead. There is absolutely no higher brain function after the virus takes root.” John dropped the papers and turned to Sherlock.  
“Good, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.” Sherlock nodded back towards the papers on the desk and John moved back to them.  
“”These results show that it’s very likely this is either a fungal infection or parasite that latches on and grows in the brain stem. But..” John stopped and squinted at the reports done on the brain tissue, “The people who were doing these tests were testing the wrong areas of the brain to get conclusive evidence.” John motioned for Sherlock to come closer and look at the page he was focused on, “They were focused on how this damages and harms the frontal lobe, they never once ran any tests on the stem.” John’s face contorted in confusion as he moved back over and picked up the scans again. Sherlock watched intently.  
“What do you see?” Sherlock was hoping John picked up on what he had.  
“It doesn’t make sense. With these scans it was clear where they should have been focusing, but..”  
“But they didn’t follow through.” Sherlock walked back over to the papers scattered across the floor. He went to the computers, typed in the surveillance tape code he needed and pulled it up. The lab where they had been running these tests came up. The place was now overrun by these dead people. Sherlock rewound the tapes to a few days prior where the incident occured. John stood with his arms crossed over his chest and watched intently. One of the infected was strapped to the table where three scientists were running a number of tests. The results to these never came back.  
The scientists were running different frequencies of electricity through the living corpse while the minimal brain activity was being monitored. In the background a man was taking notes. They adjusted the electrical current again ready to run the next level of tests. That’s when the man taking notes smashed his clipboard over one of the scientists head, cut the restraints on the test subject, ran out of the lab and locked the door. The attack was violent as the creature devoured the three scientists who had been beating on the door to be let out. The man who did it could be seen from behind the door with a grin. Sherlock paused the tape and zoomed in on the man.  
“James Moriarty, the man responsible for all of this.” Sherlock stated and held the picture from Mycroft’s files up next to the screen. “He got himself into the lab and botched all the results. He ensured that these people died before they could find a way to stop this.” John was silent but Sherlock could see the gears in the man’s brain turning.   
“One man.. That man… Did all of this.” John seemed to be talking more to himself than to Sherlock.  
“Yes. The question is how and why.” Sherlock sat back in Mycroft’s chair and ran his fingers along his face.  
“Well the labs are down. The hospitals bombed. There is no way for us to find out now.” John stated and looked towards Sherlock.  
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Sherlock stood again and started walking towards the doorway, “We are in a house full of doctors, chemists, and a forensic scientist. We have the means to run our own tests.” A look of determination was on Sherlock’s face.  
“You don’t mean to.. Are you mad?” John seemed shocked.  
“Madness and brilliance go hand in hand.” Sherlock walked purposefully out of the office and down the stairs in a rush. His coat and scarf were rested on the chair where he had left it the past evening. He put the heavy item on and wrapped the scarf around his neck. Greg was in the sitting area reading some strange fantasy book. It didn’t take him long to notice that Sherlock was dressing to head out.  
“Where do you suppose you’re going?” The grey haired man stood from the chair and walked to the entrance where Sherlock’s hand was on the front door.  
“There is work to be done and no other brains left to do it.” John had finally caught up to Sherlock with his own coat on. Sherlock smiled at this fact.  
“You haven’t seen what it’s like out there. You have no idea..” Greg was getting red with frustration.  
“He won’t be going alone.” John pipped in. Greg looked exasperated. He rubbed his hands across his jeans before nodding.  
“Okay. Tell us what to do.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed but he wasn't going to argue. Greg had a gun and they needed that.  
“I need to run some tests, and for that I need one of those things. Alive, dead, I don’t have a preference right now.” Sherlock started instructing, “Gavin, you have the gun. I need you to cover John and I. John, I need your help isolating one of them and getting them back here. They infect us by biting and scratching. Keep your arms close to you body, watch your surroundings, don’t get cornered, move fast.” The two men were nodding in understanding when Mrs. Hudson rounded the corner with a look of murder in her eyes.  
“Sherlock, what would your brother say?” She said with fury.  
“My brother let this happen and is currently hunched over a toilet with a hangover. I don’t hold high regard for his approval right now.” Mrs. Hudson glared and moved her body between Sherlock and the front door.  
“What if something happens to you?” She seemed a bit upset right now. Terrified, even.  
“Oh Mrs. Hudson, you should know I am rather indestructible.” He smiled softly at her and rested his hands on her shoulders. She seemed to soften under his touch.  
“Fine, but you are not going out like that.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her and she motioned for the three of them to follow her outside. They walked to where the group of cars had been parked and she popped the boot of her own. John let out a laugh that was a mix of both shock and relief.  
“Mrs. Hudson, you are a mystery.” The man said as he inspected the contents revealed to them now. The boot of the old woman’s car was practically an arsenal. She had rope, an array of handguns, a number of knives varying in size, two machine guns, and no less than five rifles.  
“They belonged to my husband. I figured one day they would be of use.” The woman said as she stepped aside so the men could grab some of the weapons. Greg already had his pistol. He made a move to grab a switchblade, rifle, and a machete from the trunk along with some extra ammo. John picked up a large hunting knife, a pistol, and one of the machine guns that he slung over his shoulder. Sherlock inspected all the weapons before picking up some rope, a British Army Browning L9A1, and a switchblade.  
“Have Anderson and Molly set up a lab for me. Find the room with the strongest door, most space, and a good lock. They will know what to do from there. If my brother asks I’ve gone to take a nap.” Sherlock says to Mrs. Hudson before kissing the top of her head and walking off while pulling on his leather gloves.  
Mycroft’s property was large and the walk to the gate was long but it gave Sherlock time to think. This was a dangerous mission, but one that needed to be taken. He didn’t know how far they would have to go before they found one of the dead, it could be days before they could go back home. They were leaving from a safe haven with almost no supplies for a chance that with some experiments that maybe Sherlock would be able to what? Reverse the virus? Save the world? There wasn’t much left to save anymore.  
Sherlock stopped walking abruptly when he reached the thick metal bars of the gate. Just outside of the gate, a few feet away were twelve of these dead people.Two were dragging themselves along, the flesh and muscle from their legs completely gone. Three were missing an arm, the rest were covered in ripped up and dirty flesh and blood. The creatures seemed to be bent over a corpse ripping the flesh and organs from it, loudly feasting on what used to be a person. Sherlock knew from a quick glance that this was the person who had been guarding the front gate. The sound of them feasting churned his stomach. John and Greg reached the gate not long after. The smell coming off these things was vile.  
“Christ!” Greg said just a bit too loudly. Two of the walking corpses turned to where the three men stood, their pale clouded eyes were bearing down on the men like they were an exquisite feast, and in a way they were. The two dead stood up and started charging at the gate. The bodies slammed against it hard and repeatedly. Sherlock took five huge steps backwards pulling Greg and John with him. The ripped up flesh that could barely be called arms reached out towards them as the creatures tried very hard to push through the iron rods that formed a hopefully unbreakable wall between them and the outside world. Blood was dripping from these things mouths, a few pieces of ripped flesh dangling from between their teeth. Their screeches were ear splitting and a thing of nightmares. Sherlock’s eyes were wide as he inspected these things. The commotion seemed to attract the other creatures as more started slamming into the gate with loud thuds. He could hear Greg throwing up from behind him. The smell was enough for Sherlock to want to do the same.  
“How do we go about this, Sherlock?” John asked stepping directly beside him staring at the creatures as well. Sherlock’s eyes were darting around trying to figure out the best plan here.  
Right now they were protected by a thick gate. It would be easy to just pick them off through the gate with their guns but the gunshot would no doubt attract more. Greg’s voice seemed to draw them in, so gunfire surely would. The gates were strong but they were on hinges and with enough force would push open. Attracting too many of these things could prove deadly for the whole group. Opening the gate with this many of them there would prove deadly. There was too many of them and only three men to fight back. There was no way to get one of them in without opening the gate. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and ran over the property layout in his mind. Two kilometers from where they stood there was a section where the three men could climb over the wall using some vines. Sherlock had done it many times. If they came from behind perhaps they stood a chance. They’d need someone inside to open the gate though. They couldn’t climb back over with one of those bodies.  
“Sherlock?” John asked again. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked towards the shorter man.  
“Greg, I need you to stay here. I will need you to keep them focused on you in here. Make noise but do not fire your gun. Open up the gate when I say. John, you come with me.” Sherlock didn’t explain further. He took off in a full sprint towards his right. He heard John’s footfalls behind him and knew that he was close behind.  
Sherlock had little to no issue climbing up the wall and bounding over it, but John did not have the advantage of his long legs. He was an impatient man but for John he was willing to wait. When both men were on the other side they started walking back to the left where the gate was, hidden in the treeline.  
“What’s the plan here? We are quite outnumbered in this situation.”  
“Graham will keep their focus towards him. Hopefully this gives us room to sneak up unheard from behind and thin out their numbers. With the three of us working together from both sides we should be able to manage.” Sherlock started, “With this rope we can tie one of them up and bring it into the mansion. That will give me time to observe and experiment.”  
“Are you sure bringing a live one in is the best idea?”  
“It will give us the best results. Now keep quiet. If they hear us this plan won’t work and we will be dead before any of this discussion will even matter.” Sherlock pulled the switchblade from his pocket as they got closer. “Remember, aim for the head. If it’s the brainstem that is alive that is what we need to destroy to kill them.” John nodded beside him before pulling out his hunting knife.  
The sound of Greg hitting the iron bars of the gate with his machete broke through the treeline, the sound of the grunts and screaming from the creatures following like some kind of song made from the purest depths of evil. Sherlock brought one of his long fingers to his lips and looked at John. John nodded in understanding and together the men creeped up behind the creatures. Sherlock hesitated as he walked up to one of the dead that was crawling towards him on the ground; it was obvious that this was no longer a human but part of him still held reservations about killing it. It still vaguely looked like a human, it was still moving, it was once a person. Sherlock looked at what remained of its outfit and body. Two gold rings on her left hand. Married. A mother he further deduced. There were clear indentations on the bridge of her nose and by her ears. She used to wear glasses. Her hair had been in a messy bun when she died. She looked no older than thirty-five. Her family was out there, maybe dead, maybe they were alive and wondering what became of her.  
John plunged his hunting knife into the back of the dead man’s head that had been reaching out towards him. His dark eyes looked at Sherlock inquisitively, but Sherlock didn’t let his eyes wander from the dead woman crawling towards his feet. Her arm was outstretched. She had clear silver lines across both arms visible from under her ripped shirt sleeves. She struggled with mental health, from the looks of the healing wounds she had only stopped at most three years prior to this moment. Sherlock’s hands unconsciously moved to his own covered arms where there was an array of scars, mostly needle marks. Her style of clothing reminded him of how is own mother dressed through his childhood. That seemed such a distant and impossible memory now. The joys of childhood, the food his mother would make him after a day running around playing and annoying Mycroft, how his father would read to him until he fell asleep. His parents were dead now. Destroyed in the bombing of the cities, a casualty of this new world. Tears brimmed his eyes and he said a silent apology to this women who was now gripping his lower leg about to bite him. He plunged his blade deep into the back of her skull and she went limp against him. He kicked his leg free a new look of coldness and determination on his face. He had a job to do, a machine to be. He took some strides forward and plunged his knife into the skull of another of the dead, this one pressing against others trying to get through the gate. Sherlock tuned out the sound of the dead and the knives puncturing the brainstem. Greg was shoving his machete through the fence taking out some of the ones towards the front. Everything was happening rather fast now and Sherlock couldn’t help but be grateful to have John on this side of the gate. He moved swift, fast, a soldier. Bodies were dropping around him rapidly and he never once faltered. If Sherlock wasn’t tasked with his own group of the dead he would just stare at this man working away. By the time all but one of the twelve had been dropped the three men were practically panting from the effort, their clothes and hands covered in blood. John and Sherlock were now shifting around left and right avoiding the dead man’s attacks but keeping him closed in to the gate. Sherlock was fast in unravelling the thick red rope as John drew the dead man’s attention to him. Quickly before it got too close to John he threw the rope over the man and used his whole body to knock the man to the ground. It was now screeching and thrashing around under Sherlock’s weight as he struggled to tie the rope.  
“John!” He called out needing assistance.  
“Shit!” Greg said as he ran to open the gate. John was quick to get to Sherlock’s side and start tying a tight knot as Sherlock used both hands to hold the things head down and his knees to pin its arms from scratching at John.  
“Got it! I got it!” John finally said and fell backwards into the dirt road. His pupils were dilated from the adrenaline. He was laughing almost manically. Sherlock stood up off the dead man and admired John’s work. He had managed to tie its arms tight to its body and its hands tight together. Sherlock held tight to the rope as it tried to thrash and get free. The gate finally starting opening up and Greg ran to them breathless. His eyes scanned the man thrashing and screaming on the ground.  
“You crazy bastards did it..” He said with a breathy laugh and shock in his tone. The three men looked at each other and started laughing together. It could have been the adrenaline, the fear, the shock, or maybe they truly did find this rather amusing, but no matter what they tried they couldn’t seem to stop the laughter.  
“We should, uh, get back. That screaming could be drawing more of them in.” John finally said breathlessly. They all seemed to agree and John stood from the ground. Greg started making his way back to the control panel so they could shut the gate again. Sherlock was looking at the thing on the ground and started wondering the best way to go about getting it into the house. The rope was a rope, it wouldn’t do well to keep this thing from attacking any of them if it got a chance and it wasn’t as if they could just tell it to walk to the house while pointing a gun at its head. It would need incentive. Someone would need to be bait. Sherlock was just about to recount this thought to John when he turned and was knocked over. In all the chaos they had mutually forgotten about Mycroft’s security officer that was being feasted on before they intervened. Sherlock hit the ground with a loud grunt and released the red rope, his hands now fixed on pushing this thing away from his neck. Its teeth snapped hungrily at him and he could hear its hands ripping apart his favourite coat.  
“John…” He strained out, “John!” This finally seemed to catch attention. John came around the wall he had been behind helping Greg with the gate control system.  
“Sherlock!” He called and ran forward gripping his hunting knife tight. He knocked the dead man off of Sherlock and into the ground before plunging the blade through its eye socket. Once. Twice. Six times and showing no sign of slowing down.  
“John.. I think it’s dead.” Sherlock muttered as Greg helped Sherlock back to his feet after checking him for scratches or bites. His coat was ruined. Not only stained by blood it was practically in ribbons now. These dead people were strong. They didn’t have that control people had they prevented them from using the full brunt of their strength. John remained stabbing the dead man again and again until Greg finally stepped in and pulled the man away. There was barely a head left of the dead man now. John angrily walked off muttering things under his breath. Sherlock grabbed the rope again and told Greg to keep its attention and lead it to the mansion. John shut the gates after they all entered the property and together they walked back to the mansion. Sherlock was pretty shaken, not that he would let on. He almost died, he could have become one of those things.

When they finally arrived back to the house Greg entered to find a very angry Mycroft who looked like death, a worried Mrs. Hudson, a confused Mike, and a jittery Anderson. They seemed rather horrified and disgusted by the state of Greg now, he must have been quite the sight with the fluids and dirt he was covered in. He was very aware of how bad he smelled now.  
“Would you care to explain to me what is going on?” Mycroft said with his bloodshot eyes narrowed.  
“Sherlock needed help with something.” Greg responded.  
“Where is my brother now?” Mycroft inquired.  
“He’s… uh..” Greg ran his palm across the back of his neck smearing some blood across it. There was no words good enough to explain what was about to walk through the door.  
An equally dirty John Watson burst through the door with his back to everyone. He was clapping his hands together as he walked backwards slowly.  
“That’s right. Come get me you filthy bastard!” John shouted before hitting Mycroft full on with his whole body. The two stumbled and fell backwards.  
“What is going on here?!” Mycroft yelled. Just as the words filled the room the dead man entered growling, Greg’s sweater stuffed in its mouth with Sherlock holding the rope following. A silence and horror overtook the room as everyone tried to process what was happening.  
“Oh, Myroft. Good to see you up.” Sherlock said with a smile as if this was the most normal thing in the world, and in a way it was. This was the new normal, the new world.  
“You brought one of those things in here?!” Anderson shouted towards Sherlock with a fire of rage behind his eyes, “I knew I was right about you. You really are a psychopath!” The dead man growled and Anderson took a large jump backwards. Mrs. Hudson was looking a bit green and had to leave the room because of the smell.  
“I’m not a psychopath, Anderson, I’m a high functioning sociopath. Do your research.” Sherlock fired back.  
“Sherlock, this..” Mike started and covered his mouth as if he were about to be sick, “This is insane, even for you.” Mycroft pushed John away from him and stood up.  
“Sherlock you take this thing out of here right now. You have put everyone in here at risk bringing this creature into my home. I always knew you were an idiot, but this?” Mycroft spat towards his brother.  
“I didn’t risk my life to retrieve this man for research just for you to have me throw it away.” Sherlock was glaring his brother down.  
“We had many run tests and find nothing useful. This is needlessly reckless. You may have no regard for your own life, but I would quite like to keep mine.”  
“Your labs experiments were corrupted. The results were not reliable.” John said as he stood from the floor. Mycroft’s face scrunched up.  
“What would you know of it? You’re a man of little to no intelligence if you are so willing to follow my brother here on such a pointless suicide mission.”  
“Moriarty.” Sherlock said and watched how his brother tensed up.  
“What did you just say?” Mycroft slowly turned back to his brother. The dead man was pulling hard against Sherlock’s grip and fighting to get a taste of any of the flesh in the room.  
“James Moriarty. He corrupted the results of the tests. He is the reason the lab fell.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at his brother, “You know good old James, don’t you brother mine? The man who ended the world after you deemed him a minor threat?” Sherlock’s tone was venomous.  
“Enough! Stop this right now Sherlock. Take this thing outside and kill it. This is my home, you will not fill it with anymore disease.” Mycroft was referring to the people who were now residing in the mansion because of Sherlock.  
“I don’t need your permission. Just because you have given up doesn’t mean the rest of the world is ready to.” Sherlock tugged hard against the rope when the dead man made a lunge for John again. Mycroft, Sherlock, and everyone else in the entry area were moments away from getting into a screaming match when Molly walked into the room brandishing a steak knife. Her previously long hair was now cut into a short pixie cut. Her eyes were dark and determined. Before anyone could even react she plunged the knife deep into the dead man’s eye socket and removed it in a swift motion. The man fell to the ground with a loud thud.  
“Now will you all shut up?” She asked coldly before throwing the knife to the ground and walking out without another word. Everyone was silent as they watched the blood pool on the wood floor from the dead man’s head.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for taking the time out to read my first attempt at writing a fanfiction. I had toyed with the idea of writing some Sherlock fanfics for a long time and have a number of series planned. But when I sat down and really decided to get into it I realized I wanted to ease my way in and start off with something that I'd find super fun. It all came to me in a dream and I just couldn't get the idea out of my head. Before I knew what was happening I already had a plot for four installments to the series and probably quite a few after. I know a zombie AU is rather out there when it comes to Sherlock, but exploring how these characters would react and manage in this type of word pulled me in.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys this series as much as I am already enjoying writing it. My current plan is going to be posting a minimum of one chapter every one to two weeks. There will be times when I get some extra inspiration and may post a few chapters at a time. I'm looking forward to embarking on this zombie adventure with you and our favourite consulting detective.
> 
> With much love, -ASirensDeadliestSong


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